William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

Jerre’s words, Ben thought.

“…It just won’t work. There was a philosopher, Frenchman, I think, can’t remember his name, but I read something by him that has always stuck in my mind. A fellow was askin’ this man his likes and dislikes: do you like Germans? No. Do you like Italians? No. Do you like Jews? No. Do you like Negroes? No. Do you like Catholics? No. Protestants? No. Finally, the man got exasperated and asked him just who he did like? The philosopher looked at him and said, ‘I like my friends.’”

Ike grinned as he popped open another can of beer. “That’s the way it’s got to be, Ben Raines. You think about it. We’ll keep in touch.”

“You’re quite a philosopher yourself, Ignatius Victor McGowen,” Ben said.

Ike poured a can of beer over Ben’s head.

A few weeks after the wedding, the radio station went off the air (the tower fell down one night), and the party broke up, each going his or her own way. Tatter and June-Bug went to Mississippi with Ike and Megan; Space-Baby and Angel-Face slipped out one night without even saying good-by.

“They kinda have this thing for each other,” explained Honey-Poo.

“How about you?” Ben asked.

“Well, Ben Raines,”—she smiled—“I been thinking about hittin’ the road. There was a ham operator on the other night talkin’ about this big party that’s goin’ on over at St. Augustine. I ’magine that’s where Space-Baby and Angel-Face went, or will eventually land.”

“When were you thinking about pulling out?”

“Oh… I was kinda thinkin’ about pullin’ out today. I’m packed. I think you and me have about run our course, don’t you, Ben?”

Ben allowed he believed they had. She was about to screw him to death.

“You got things to write about, Ben. And me? Well… I guess I’ll go party until the day I die. I wish you lots of luck, Ben Raines.”

“Same to you, Prudence.”

She kissed him on the cheek, patted Juno on the head, and went bouncing out the door, in search of a perpetual good time in what was left of a world’s madness. She waved good-by as she bounced off in a Jeep that had been painted pink.

And Ben was alone once more. Juno stuck his muzzle into Ben’s hand and whined softly.

Well, not quite alone.

Ben pulled out his portable typewriter and began writing the first of his journal; it was, he knew, a mammoth undertaking. And he wondered if he could, or would, ever finish it; for always in the back of his mind were the Rebels and his dream of a free land of good laws and good government. He could not shake them away.

In March, with the weather warm, the sun bright, and the gulf sea blue-green, a period of restlessness hit him. He drove into Tampa, knowing it was a foolish thing to do.

The city was a littered, pockmarked battleground. Fires, still smoking, scarred its former beauty. Ben made one quick pass on Interstate 75, turned east on Interstate 4, then went up to the University of South Florida. It was as if he had stepped from one world to another. The campus was peaceful, almost serene. He parked his truck, locked it, and walked the campus. It had a deserted feel, but for the most part, had not been disturbed by looters.

Naturally, Ben thought; ignorant people don’t loot books. He rounded a curve in the sidewalk and came to an abrupt halt. An elderly gentleman sat on a bench, reading a book and eating a sandwich. The man was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His shoes were polished, and he was clean-shaven. He looked up.

“Ah! I do so hate to be the bearer of bad news, young man, but we are not holding classes. I really can’t say when this institution will reopen its door to welcome the young seekers of knowledge.”

“We come in idealistically and leave with money our only goal.”

“Precisely.”

“It will reopen someday,” Ben said. “Hopefully,” he added.

“Glad you added that disclaimer,” the man said. “I wish I shared your optimism.” His eyes drifted to Ben’s M-10 and the canvas pouch of clips; the 9-mm belted around his waist; the knife hanging on his left side. He looked at Juno, looking at him.

“Handsome animal. Is he friendly?”

“He has been so far, sir.”

“Please.” The man gestured toward the empty bench beside him. “Come—sit down. Despite your rather rugged appearance and your formidable display of arms, you behave as though you might have more than a modicum of intelligence. Join me in some conversation.”

“Watch Juno,” Ben cautioned the man. “He swipes food.” He sat down, looking at the book the man had been reading: Selected Works of Wordsworth . “Interesting reading, but shouldn’t you be reading something on survival?”

The man chuckled and patted Juno’s big head. Juno grabbed his sandwich and ate it in two gulps.

“See what I mean?” Ben said.

“There is ample food to be had, son. For as long as I shall live—which, hopefully, won’t be much longer.”

“Why would you hope that?”

“This”—the man waved his hand—“is—was—my entire life. I taught here since its opening day. Before that I was at the University of Florida—Gainesville. I have been a professor for all of my adult life. I know nothing else. And I am seventy-five years old. What else is there for me?”

“Life.”

“But a life without flavor. What is your name, young man?”

Ben told him.

“And you did what before everybody went away?”

Went away? Ben glanced at him. “I was a writer. But I doubt you ever read any of my books.”

“I fear you are correct, Mr. Raines. But I am so glad you came along. Tell me about yourself, what you plan on doing. Enlighten me.”

Ben felt the elderly gentleman did not have both oars in the water; probably the tragedy had been too much for him to cope with and he slipped just a bit. But Ben told him in detail, if only to have someone to talk with for a time.

The professor clapped his hands and giggled. “Oh, wonderful!” he cried. “Now I can go without feeling guilty about leaving her.”

“Go?” Ben queried. “Go, where? Leave her? Her who?”

“Whom, son.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m a professor, young man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To join my friends in that great classroom in the sky. Where the debates are endless and the merits of Wordsworth and Tennyson and all the greats are discussed with the respect and admiration due them. And Kipling can take Gunga Din and both of them can squat on the coals until their nuts roast.”

Now Ben was certain the man’s bread was not fully baked.

“I like Kipling,” Ben said.

“I shall ignore that outrage. Look, look!” The man pointed. “See that building over there? See it, see it?” Ben said he did.

“That’s where I live. With April.”

“April is your wife?”

“Good heavens, no! My wife has been dead for… umm… well, a long time, I suppose—haven’t seen her around. No, you see, April was a student of mine—last year. She survived the… ah, what did happen, son?”

Ben told him what he knew and what he surmised.

“Is that right? Umm? Well, I’ve often wondered about it.”

“There wasn’t anyone you could ask? No one came around here?”

“Only those rather large, boorish types. Very hostile. But you’ve informed me, so I won’t worry about it any further.” He peered at Ben through his thick glasses. “What were we talking about?”

“April.”

“April? It’s not yet April, is it?”

“No, sir,” Ben replied patiently. “It’s March. April was a student of yours.”

“Oh, yes! Now I remember. Yes, well… April took it upon herself to look after me. Not that I need any looking after, mind you. And she is beginning to annoy me with all her fussing about. She’s not my type of woman at all. Not at all. She is… rather… a clinging-vine type. Not that there is anything wrong with that—not at all. She just doesn’t have big titties. I like women with big titties. My wife—God rest her soul, wherever she is—had big titties. I used to love to play with her big titties. Don’t you like big titties?”